


Rock N' Roll (Boy)friend

by Castielslostwings



Series: Rock You [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Backstage, Bathing/Washing, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Closeted Character, Concerts, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Gardener Castiel (Supernatural), Gay Sex, M/M, Partying, Referenced Bottom Dean, Referenced Switching, Rock Star Dean Winchester, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Secret Relationship, Supportive Castiel, appropriation of SPN themes for song titles, quiet Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: A peek into the life of Castiel Novak, the secret boyfriend of Rock God Dean Winchester, on a concert day.





	Rock N' Roll (Boy)friend

**Author's Note:**

> I just really needed to write some head-clearing fluff and smut, so here you go. Castiel loves Dean loves Cas, everything is happy and sweet and nothing hurts.
> 
> Title is a modification of Green Day's similarly titled "Rock 'N' Roll Girlfriend."

The thing about attending a live show is that it’s  _exciting,_ electric even, in a way that experiencing packaged media can never be. There’s nothing that can compare to seeing your favorite band, comic, or actor perform live and in person, right before your eyes. Live performances are passionate, they’re flawed, they’re different every time. The energy of the crowd, the snapping of the speakers, the way a good performer can have a screaming crowd on their feet and clapping one minute, and on their knees in tears the next. _Concerts_ are a rockstar’s bread and butter. Records may bring in the cash, but _concerts_ bring in the fans. And the closer a fan _feels_ to a celebrity, the more devout they’ll stay, the more merch they’ll buy, the more involved in the star’s life they’ll care to become.

But the thing about live performances that fans sometimes forget, is that they are just that -- a show. A carefully curated and perfectly practiced, _show._ You see what the celebrities and their creative teams want you to see, nothing more. And there’s nothing bad about that, fantasy is a beautiful thing. But behind the scenes? Celebrities are just people. And their real lives, their real _loves,_ more often than not are a very different story than the tales they weave for the spotlight… Dean Winchester is no exception.

***

_Three Years Before the Wedding_

There’s a certain rhythm Dean gets into on show days. It’s not that he’s superstitious, per se, he’s just got certain things that he likes to do, and a certain way of doing them. Castiel doesn't mind. He’s a man of routine as well, and on the road routine isn’t always easy to come by. So he’s more than happy to be able to anticipate Dean’s moods and expectations on his most important days, even if those moods can be a bit more "princess" and a bit less hardened rockstar.

It’s easier if they’ve stayed in a motel the night before. Dean’s always more relaxed when he doesn’t feel like he has to hide half of his routine from his bandmates and roadies for fear of being subjected to relentless teasing. Though, Castiel thinks it pretty unlikely that they all haven’t learned by now that the few laughs they get at Dean’s expense are not worth the pissy, defensive Dean they’ll have to suffer through during the rest of the drive time _and_ soundcheck _and_ pre-show, _and_ however long until Dean gets enough whiskey in him after the concert to forget that he’s supposed to be mad.

 It could also have something to do with the fact that on nights before a performance (when they’re _not_ stuck on a bus) Dean reliably gets in Castiel’s face and demands to be shoved up against whatever hotel room headboard and railed mercilessly until he’s screaming and begging and Castiel’s fingers have left purpling bruises on his hips. That’s definitely one of the parts of Dean’s routine he doesn’t mind in the least. 

On this particular morning after, Castiel stands on the balcony of their VIP suite at the Philadelphia Hilton, checking out the activity on the Delaware river below and enjoying the cool autumn breeze and the sounds of the city. He smiles as his mind wanders back to the night before, unsure whether it’s selfish to hope that Dean won’t be walking entirely straight this evening. He shrugs as he decides that it’s his right, and regardless, Dean’s fans will just blame it on his bowlegs anyway.

Castiel sips at the mug of hot coffee in his hands, mentally reviewing his concert-day checklist to ensure that he doesn’t miss anything. He isn’t always with Dean on the road, but when he is he’s not about to lose precious time with him because Dean’s worked up over something stupid not being exactly right. Dean knows what he likes and what makes him feel comfortable and prepared, and there’s nothing wrong with that in Castiel’s book. He just wonders how Dean copes when he’s not around, though if Sam’s irritated calls begging for help in pulling Dean out of various funks are any indication, he really doesn’t. He’s pretty sure that Dean isn’t even aware of how much effort Castiel puts into making his show days go smoothly, and that’s fine with Castiel too. He could care less, as long as Dean is happy and has a good show. 

Castiel would do anything to support Dean. Dean, who goes out of his way to make Castiel feel loved and wanted every single day, who deserves to be taken care of and pampered and _loved_ , the way he so frustratingly still has trouble asking for. But it doesn’t matter, because after all these years, Castiel’s got his number.

He shuffles back inside the room, leaving the sliding glass door open to let some fresh air in. The suite is enormous and tonight it will likely be filled with all of Dean’s bandmates and several dozen of their closest new friends. That particular part of the night Castiel could do without, but part of Dean’s job is _appearances,_ it’s _image,_ it’s PR. There’s a good chance that tonight he might even be sitting across the room watching Dean sprawl on this very couch with a couple of scantily clad groupies draped all over him. If they’re particularly persistent, Dean might even end up making out with one of them, or doing body shots from between their breasts, and he’ll almost _definitely_ end up getting groped at some point or another. Castiel sometimes finds himself wondering if he should be more concerned that those things don’t bother him, but the truth is, they just don’t. Those things are part of Dean’s _job,_ and playing the part of charismatic, wild, party boy Dean Winchester allows him to keep doing what he loves with the people he loves doing it with. Besides, there’s nothing to be jealous _of,_ not for Castiel.

None of those girls are going home with Dean, not that any of them have any idea what an unbelievably wrong tree they’re barking up. None of them are going to take Dean back to _their_ bedroom at the end of the night, undress him, pleasure him, kiss him silly. None of them get to see Dean spread out beneath them, eyes dark and glassy, writhing with want, begging, _pleading_ for release, for them to come inside him. None of them get to hear Dean’s emotional declarations of love over the phone when they can’t be with him, his sweet voice rambling on about all the sappy, romantic things he can’t wait to do the next time he’s home. Simple things, like how he wants to lay in the grass in their own backyard and pick out constellations together as Castiel tries to draw them in his freckles. 

All of them know and love _Dean Winchester, Rockstar,_ but none of them know _Dean. No one_ gets Dean like he does. A rare bolt of possessiveness courses through Castiel as he thinks about all of this, but it’s more from his fierce love for Dean than anything else. Of course, he wishes he could have Dean all to himself, all of the time, but that’s not healthy. The fact is, what they have is _good._ It’s really good, and Castiel is happy too. The fans can have their moment. He has Dean. 

Currently, the man in question is still passed out cold in the suite’s biggest bedroom, par for the course. Castiel lets him sleep, moving quietly into the master bath and running hot water into the giant Jacuzzi tub. He pulls out Dean’s travel kit and arranges the things they’ll need along the tiled edge. While it’s filling, he returns to the ensuite kitchen and fixes Dean a big cup of tea with lemon and honey. No coffee on show days, it’s bad for Dean’s voice. He’s just stirring the honey in when a shirtless and sleep-warm Dean presses against his own bare back, his arms coming around to circle his waist and hold on tightly. Dean buries his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck and hums in contentment.

“Mornin’ huggy bear,” he mumbles, his million dollar voice rough and dirty from sleep. A thrill of want shoots right to Castiel’s cock when he hears it. “Have I tol’ you lately that I love waking up with you here?”

Castiel sets the tea down and turns in Dean’s arms with some difficulty, the man having no interest in dislodging himself from his chosen octopus-like position. Once he succeeds, he settles gentle hands on Dean’s hips, thumbs grazing softly over the fresh bruises marring the skin there. He leans in to press their lips together, lingering far too long as Dean repeats his happy hum from earlier. “Mm,” he sighs. “No fuckin’ better way to wake up, ‘cept, you know, when you don’t bail out of bed before I can con you into some morning sex.” Castiel grins and pats his cheek.

“I made you tea,” he says, turning to pick the cup back up and hand it over. “Drink it all and then brush your teeth, I ran us a bath.”  

Dean sips the tea and groans. “Fuck me, Cas, how do you make leaf water taste so damn good?”

“Perhaps later, if you’re not too sore from last night. And honey,” Castiel replies without missing a beat. “But you know that.”

“You’re a god among men, Cas.” Dean pecks his cheek and heads for the bathroom, draining his cup and limping slightly as he goes. Castiel follows behind, doing his best to swallow his smile at the sight. He busies himself adding various salts and oils to the steaming water, despite the fact that the sign specifically says not to do just that. _I mean, we are rockstars,_ Castiel reasons. _It’s essentially expected, right?_

By the time Dean’s done peeing and brushing his teeth, the Jacuzzi is full. Castiel flips the jets on, strips and steps in, sinking into the hot water and opening his arms for Dean to join him. Happily, Dean hops in after him and sinks beneath the water, settling naturally between Castiel’s legs and resting his head back on his shoulder. Letting out another ridiculously pornographic groan, Dean slides his hands up and down Castiel’s thighs and wiggles back and forth under the suds.

“This is goddamn _heaven,_ Cas. What did I ever do to deserve you? Or, maybe the question should be, what am I _going_ to do?” Dean’s tone is light and teasing, and Castiel smiles into his hair as he drops kisses on his head.

“A great many things, I’m sure,” he replies, and Dean snorts. “Mask?”

He offers as if he doesn’t already know the answer, and Dean grunts in assent as if they both aren’t pretending this isn’t one of his favorite activities. Castiel’s fingertips are already working the packet closer and he rips it open to pull out the expensive sheet mask as soon as he has Dean’s permission. He arranges Dean’s head properly on his shoulder and places the mask over his prone face. After that, it’s quiet for a while as they both soak and enjoy the bath and bubbles. Castiel lets his lips drift softly over the soft, sensitive skin of Dean’s neck, lets his fingers roam over Dean’s cut abdomen and firm pecs. This is one of his favorite activities as well, because Dean’s never more relaxed and pliant than when they’re in a bath. It’s such a change from his stage and even his day to day public persona, and Castiel treasures the knowledge that he feels safe and loved enough to be vulnerable like this with him.

When the mask has run its course, Castiel taps Dean’s flank, and as well-trained as he is Dean leans forward easily in anticipation of what’s coming next. The mask drops into Castiel’s waiting hand, and he tosses it aside. Slowly, carefully, lovingly, he works his hands over and down Dean’s shoulders and back, flexing and kneading every knot free until Dean is so relaxed Castiel worries if he slumps any farther forward he’ll drown. He places a firm hand in the center of Dean’s back, right between his shoulder blades as he always does, and Dean hums and nods in recognition as Castiel stands and steps out of the tub. He slips into his own robe and brings Dean the other, reaching a hand down to help him stand and step out before draping it over his shoulders. Dean stops him before he can go any farther, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling him in tight so that they’re chest to chest. He kisses Castiel, long and slow and deep, letting his hand drift up to the base of Castiel’s skull to turn it this way and that, licking into his mouth like he’s something precious. He pulls away slowly, returning for several soft, lingering kisses that steal Castiel’s breath away.

“Thank you, sunshine,” he whispers as their foreheads are still pressed together. “Love you buckets.”

***

Soundcheck is boring. It was exciting a lifetime ago, the first several times Castiel ever sat through one, but the band’s been touring off and on for almost seven years now, and the novelty has fully worn off. Castiel sits in the middle of the empty Fillmore for exactly three songs before he can’t even fake it anymore and heads backstage to Dean’s dressing room. He knows Dean won’t take it personally, a suspicion that’s quickly validated when Dean throws him a wink as he disappears into the wings. Castiel happens to know that Dean himself finds soundchecks tedious and irritating, and most likely would bail if he could. 

At this time of day, the backstage area is busy but not overly crowded. Castiel makes his way easily to the room with Dean’s name on the door, garnering a few waves and nods from security and various roadies. He doesn’t worry about anyone wondering what he’s doing or questioning his presence; the band’s backstage team is hand-picked and everyone travels with them for venue to venue. Most of them know about Cas and Dean, and are far more likely to defend them against any threats, perceived or actual, than to try and sell them out for a payday. The band and its crew really are a family and Castiel’s grateful for that, because he knows he and Dean wouldn’t have been able to carry on their relationship on their own terms otherwise. He’d have to have to go back to those first two years before the band really blew up, where Dean was on the road most of the time and Castiel had to stay behind. 

Point being, anyone with pre-show access is considered to be trustworthy, or at least has signed an NDA. The aftershow crowd is an entirely different story, but that’s a concern for later. Castiel puts his free time to use ensuring Dean’s dressing room is ready, and that the things he likes having around pre and post show are up to his own standards. To be fair, this is probably something that someone around here is actually getting paid to check, and while Castiel is sure they do a fine job, he does it himself anyway. As it turns out, there’s no need to worry. Dean’s rider is filled to perfection, and Castiel rewards his own vigilance by helping himself to a Margiekugels. He’s kicked back on the dressing room sofa and dozing lightly when Dean returns, accompanied by Sam. Castiel waves sleepily, not bothering to get up. Dean lifts his legs and slides underneath them without missing a beat in his conversation with Sam regarding the riffs in their newest single or something else Castiel has nothing to contribute to. He lets his eyes drift closed again, knowing full well that he has at least another hour of brotherly back and forth to contend with. He drifts off to sleep with Dean massaging his calves.

***

Castiel _loves_ Dean’s show-ready look. His hair is always extra spikey, his chosen t-shirts always black and extra tight, showcasing the attractive bulge of his biceps. Some nights (and thankfully this is one of them), Dean lets the makeup artist rim his eyes with kohl, making the bright green of his irises flash like stained glass in direct sunlight. By halfway through the show, Dean’s skin will be glistening with sweat, the edges of his hair damp and dark with it. It’s then that Castiel understands Dean’s legions of ravenous fans the most. It’s often all he can do to keep himself planted in the wings when Dean looks his way and licks his lips or winks. Castiel feels the stirrings of lust creeping up and settling in his belly, warm and heavy as he watches Dean tune his favorite guitar with one foot propped up on a chair. He looks positively edible with his jeans hanging low on his hips, so low in fact that his stylist backtracks after walking by him, sizing him up and then darting off only to return with a wide belt and a reproachful look. She does her best to cinch the belt tight enough to keep his jeans firmly above the purpling marks on Dean’s skin. Dean just flashes her a cheeky, unapologetic smile as he hands his guitar off to a roadie.

“You know your manager will have my head if he thinks I didn’t cover these,” Bella complains with a glare that gets equally directed at Castiel. “I’d like to avoid another lecture from Crowley about how your fans pay for the fantasy, and how I’d do well to remember that, if you don’t mind. And you,” she snaps, turning to face him, “You can’t keep your bloody paws three inches farther south? Animals, both of you,” she grumbles as she stomps away. Dean reaches for the belt once her back is turned, obviously with the intention of pushing his pants back down. “Don’t even think about it Dean, I will put a laxative in your tea,” Bella calls over her shoulder.

Dean quickly relents, throwing his hands up even though Bella isn’t looking his way. “How does she do that?” He stares after her, watching as she grabs Sam by his shirt and corrals him into a chair to fix his hair. Sam bats her hands away but Bella says something and he relents almost as quickly as Dean. Castiel tilts his head as Bella ties Sam’s hair up in a messy man bun, laughing softly at the younger Winchester’s blatant expression of dislike as he watches in the mirror.

“Some kind of deal with the devil, most likely,” Castiel says in delayed answer to Dean. “Anyway, tea?” Dean usually has a cup before he goes on, but today he shakes his head, stepping close to Castiel and glancing around before dropping his head slightly and locking their lips together. Castiel’s eyes flutter closed at the unexpected gesture, usually Dean’s lost in his own world from about an hour before the show until at _least_ midway through when he hits his stride. But tonight he’s in a mood, apparently, and as long as no one is looking, Castiel’s fine with taking advantage. But the crowd is getting restless, chanting the band’s name and screaming for Dean, and so he pulls away far too soon. Castiel smiles though, touches two fingers to his lips and wishes him luck.

And then _Dean_ is gone, and Dean Winchester, Rock God, is standing in his place, sweeping onto the stage with a presence that’s so damn _big_ Castiel almost doesn’t recognize him. He watches from the edge of the wings, his fingers curling into the heavy material to keep himself from accidentally stumbling forward as Dean and Sam come together in the middle of the stage, all smiles. Dean plucks his guitar and finds it out of tune, which Castiel of course knows is intentional.

 _“Sonofabitch,”_ Dean swears into his mike, and the crowd goes insane. _“Alright, I think we’re good now,”_ he adds as he plucks and tunes it properly this time. _“I just love when shit works. PHILADELPHIA, ARE YOU GUYS READY TO PARTY?”_

More cheers from the crowd, and then the first notes of “ _Devil Made Me Do It,”_ fill the stadium, loud and punchy. The crowd’s amped, screaming the lyrics alongside Dean and Sam, holding their phones up to record the number, jumping up and down in the slowly widening mosh pit. Castiel just stands quietly and watches. Whatever Dean is in this moment; _larger than life, eye-catching, fucking transcendent,_ Castiel is the opposite. People _see_ Dean wherever he goes, and not _just_ because he’s famous. Dean is bright, engaging, _exciting,_ and he _shines_ no matter what it is he’s doing. People are drawn to light like Dean’s, they gravitate towards him, will do just about anything just to bask in his warmth, even for a short time. Castiel is quiet, he blends right into the shadows, especially Dean’s. People walk right by him and never even notice he’s there. He’s silence, solitude, and routine, not that there’s anything wrong with those things. He and Dean are just different, and he still has no idea what it is that Dean sees in him, but he’s long past questioning it. Dean _loves_ him, relentlessly and with every bit of energy and light that he pours into every other aspect of his life, and in turn, Castiel worships Dean.

 In a way, Castiel’s ability to blend seamlessly into the background is a blessing. For every time that a paparazzo has snapped a photo of him trailing behind Dean in the grocery store, exiting a limo after him, generally appearing in the same vicinity with absolutely zero reason to be there, no one has ever voiced any suspicion regarding who he really is. Sometimes Castiel wonders if that should offend him, but the truth is that it simply doesn’t. He doesn’t _want_ the sort of attention Dean garners, the sort of scrutiny that being outed as one of the most famous musicians in the world’s gay lover would bring. Castiel just wants a quiet life, with Dean, and to his credit, Dean does his level best to give that to him.

Dean catches his eye a few times during the show when he happens to turn around, and while Castiel’s learned not to expect attention when Dean’s in concert-mode, it sparks a warm feeling in his chest whenever he’s proven wrong. Dean does tend to get like this, more attentive and less focused, when they’ve been on the road for an extended period of time and he’s not been able to take a real break. Castiel suspects that while he won’t admit it, he really does miss the stability of waking up somewhere that’s _his,_ with nowhere to go and in the arms of someone who loves him. He more than suspects, if he’s being honest, because after long stretches away Dean will start casually making comments about the home cooked meals, especially the ones he can’t wait to cook for Castiel when they get home. He’ll casually mention how he wants to throw a barbeque and invite Sam and whatever girlfriend he’s got that month over, maybe even the rest of the band. He’ll complain when getting into bed about how _their_ sheets are softer and cooler than the ones on the hotel du jour’s king, how _their_ sofa has the perfect Dean-shaped indentation in it and the one in the suite is too hard, how _their_ water pressure beats the hell out of any five star suite’s any day. It’s things like that. 

Dean would never complain outright though, never talk about quitting or scaling back his time on the road, not yet. He feels an obligation to the fans who’ve built him the career and lifestyle he enjoys every day, and has played shows with the flu, a 103 degree fever, a broken ankle, and in between bouts of running offstage to vomit. For whatever reason, Dean doesn’t seem to believe he’s entitled to ever complain about how hard life on the road can be, or to want things for himself if they interfere with his job. He’s gotta be one of the most dedicated and faithful rockstars in history. 

The band takes a fifteen minute break after their first set and Dean strides confidently off the stage to thunderous applause, grinning happily and sweating. His tour coordinator stops him in the wings, hands him a towel, and runs down a few notes and reminders for the second set. Dean nods and claps him on the shoulder in thanks before making his way to Castiel’s side, where he’s got a bottle of water and a fresh cup of hot tea ready.

Dean sighs in blissful thanks as he uncaps the water and chugs it all down in one go. “Damn, that feels good,” he says. “How’d we look?”

“Extraordinary,” Castiel replies sincerely, holding eye contact and smiling. “Will you close with _“Righteous Man”_ tonight?”

The smile on Dean’s face becomes shy, and his ruddy cheeks pinken up even further. He dabs his forehead with the towel and taps the toe of his boot at Castiel’s shoe before answering. “I kinda thought we’d do _“Out of Perdition,”_ he says quietly.

 _Ah,_ Castiel thinks. _There it is. He is homesick. “Out of Perdition”_ is _their_ song, written by Dean for Castiel and one of the few songs the band sings that’s about romance at all. There are plays on Castiel’s name in there using the word “angel,” and it always hits a bit close to home for both of them. Dean only tends to sing it when he’s feeling emotional, and his vulnerability usually shows in his performance. That said, it’s a hell of a closing number, and everyone’s a sucker for a heartfelt romantic ballad. The fans tend to go nuts when Dean’s watery, love-struck eyes are projected thirty feet tall on the screen behind him.

He reaches out to offer comfort through a lingering squeeze of Dean’s hand. They shouldn’t hug or kiss since the show is now more than half over and random folks with all kinds of different passes and reasons to be there will be filtering through the backstage area, but damn Castiel wants to. From the look on Dean’s face, he feels the same.

“I would very much love to hear that tonight, Dean,” Castiel replies, and Dean looks relieved. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Dean shrugs. “You know how it is,” he replies evasively, drumming his fingers on the teacup in his hands before swallowing the rest of its contents down in one go. Their moment is broken as the lights flicker and the drumbeat for “ _Purgatory”_ starts up. That’s Dean’s cue to return to the stage. He holds Castiel’s gaze for a moment longer anyway, and backs up instead of turning around. “See you soon,” he calls over the rising music, and then he’s gone. This is usually the point in the show where Castiel makes himself scarce and returns to Dean’s dressing room to wait, and tonight is no exception. But unlike usual, when he gets back there he flips on the dressing room’s TV and tunes it to the livestream of the concert so that he won’t miss Dean’s closing song. 

***

Castiel scans the room from behind the wetbar where he’s been playing the part of professional bartender for the better part of two hours now. The show’s been over for three, and aside from a fifteen minute make-out session in his dressing room, he hasn’t has a moment alone with Dean since they’d spoken in the wings. He pours himself another measured shot of mediocre whiskey and shoots it. Castiel has no doubt that part of the reason no one ever questions his presence at these things is his ability to drink any of them under the table without trying, but it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out for trouble. 

Ninety percent of the time, the fans and friends invited to these after parties are exactly who they say they are, and they want what all groupies want -- to hang out with the band, get drunk, act wild, leave with great stories and photos. But _sometimes_ an opportunist sneaks in, intent on leaving with blackmail material, or at least something they can sell to the tabloids for a quick payday. Those kind of assholes are fairly easy to weed out, they aren’t overly interested in the band and they tend to stay sober, so Castiel’s trained himself to pick potential troublemakers out on sight, just in case. One nod to Benny, and anyone he so much as doesn’t like the look of will be out on their ass. As protective as the rest of the band is of Dean and him, they’re still rockstars, and they still like to party. As a result, when it comes to choosing people to invite back to the suite (and it’s _always_ Dean’s suite, since he always has the biggest one), their taste is a lot more visual than practical. Castiel doesn’t mind, the band’s done a lot for him and they shouldn’t have to be constantly in hyper-vigilant mode just because he and Dean want to keep their relationship out of the public eye. 

He’s pretty sure tonight’s crowd is safe, though. Well, as safe as a bunch of drunken rockstars and their overly enthusiastic fans can be, anyway. This is the part of the night Castiel likes the least. He keeps accidentally getting an eyeful of Sam Winchester’s erection as a half-naked girl grinds in his lap, and that’s just something he could really do without. As attractive as Sam is, he’s like a brother to Castiel, and since they share a lot of the same interests, it’s Sam he has to thank for filling so many of the long hours on the bus with interesting conversation. Plus, he’s heard so many stories of Sam’s childhood antics he almost feels like he was there. The rest of the band and a not small number of the fans are in similar states, including Dean. He’s directly across from Castiel, sprawled on their couch with a pretty, tattooed blonde girl in a miniskirt and heels perched on his lap. She’s clearly pretty intoxicated, because she hasn’t noticed that despite talking nonstop for at least fifteen minutes, Dean hasn’t looked at her face once. Castiel knows, because Dean’s eyes are glued on him.

The girl must realize she’s lost his attention, because she slides off of his lap and unsteadily pushes to her feet, grabbing Dean’s hand and attempting to pull him up with her. Whatever she’s saying now must grab his attention, because Dean finally glances at her face and allows himself to be pulled. The girl makes her way over to the bar and wastes no time jumping up on it and lying down.

“Where do you want it?” Castiel casts his eyes down at the glass he’s wiping and bites back a smirk as what this girl obviously thinks is a seductive tone comes out drunken and slurry.

“Sexy,” he murmurs, and Dean’s eyes shoot up to match his gaze, twinkling with amusement and relatively clear. Dean isn’t drunk at all.

To the girl, he shrugs. “How 'bout you go easy on me, sweetheart? S’been a long night and I’m an old man, dunno if I can handle much more than a belly shot.” He flashes her a big pearly grin and she giggles.

“Okay, Dean,” she purrs, hollowing her stomach and squeaking a little when Castiel pours out a shot from a vodka bottle he’d been keeping on ice. He raises his eyebrows at Dean.

“Touché,” Dean whispers, giving Castiel a wink as he bends over and does his shot, much to the girl’s delight. Dean hates straight vodka.

When he stands back up, he makes an exaggerated yawn, and offers the girl his hand to help her sit. Her eyes light up with what can only be described as pure, unadulterated hope, and Castiel almost feels a little bad for her. “So uh,” Dean starts, “I’m pretty worn out. Think I’m gonna hit the hay.” He takes the girl’s hand and brings it to his lips, giving her knuckles a kiss like a proper gentleman. Castiel’s eyes do their best not to roll. “It was a real pleasure getting to know you, Madison. I want to thank you for coming out to my show and being so supportive of my work. Maybe I’ll catch you the next time we’re in town?” Castiel notes the precise moment _Madison_ realizes she isn’t being invited to accompany Dean to bed, and her face falls. To her credit, she schools it quickly and goes all in.

Shuffling forward on the bar so that Dean is trapped between her legs, she twines her fingers in his t-shirt and holds on. “You’re a real gentleman, Dean Winchester, but you don’t have to be. I’m plenty sober, and you can’t take advantage of the willing. I’d be more than happy to make sure you get a _real_ restful night’s sleep, if you’d let me,” she coos.

It’s not a _bad_ play, but Castiel’s seen better. He leans forward on the bar with both hands and cocks his head to the side, waiting to see what Dean does. Without missing a beat, he gently removes her hand and places it in her own lap.

“Wouldn’t be right, sugar,” he declines, voice deep and smooth like honey, smile perfect and sweet. If Castiel was this girl, he’d definitely feel like he was adding insult to injury. “I’ve got someone waiting for me at home. Thanks for the company, and the offer, though. Stick around as long as you want, and tell the front desk to put your Uber on my tab, alright? Night, Madison. See you around.” With that, Dean takes off down the hall to the bedrooms of the suite, and doesn’t look back. Madison pouts on the bar for exactly thirty seconds before taking off across the room and wedging herself in next to Sam, despite the girl already on his lap. Castiel makes a face and then shakes it off. He wanders out onto the balcony and takes in the cool night air, watching the various currents of the river below meander on by. When he supposes enough time has passed, he makes his way back inside and down the hall to their bedroom, and no one pays him any mind.

He hardly has time to get the door closed and locked before he’s being slammed against the wall face first, his ass grinded on by over six feet of frustrated Dean. “I hate this sometimes,” he mumbles into Castiel’s shirt, yanking his collar aside and biting at the skin under his ear, over his shoulder, and at the nape of his neck. “Watching everyone else get to do whatever depraved shit they want without a care in the world while all I can do is watch you from across the room.”

Castiel tips his head to the side to allow Dean better access. “And what depraved things did you want to do to me out there in front of everyone?”

Dean snorts but doesn’t stop kissing and nipping at him, his hands working the buttons of his shirt open as he does. “You fuckin’ know what I mean, Cas. But since you’re asking, anything. Everything. Did you _see_ Sam?”

“Yes, and thank you for reminding me. I didn’t want to be aroused, anyway.”

A hand slides down the front of Castiel’s trousers and squeezes the already growing bulge there. “Seems like you’ll survive,” Dean quips.

Castiel turns in his arms suddenly and grabs both of his hands, forcing Dean to stop and pay attention. He whines, but Castiel kisses him softly and shakes his head. “Dean, do you want to come out?” That _does_ get Dean to pause, and he stands there for a good minute just staring at Castiel’s chest. Castiel waits patiently for him to process, standing perfectly still and holding on tight to his hands.

“No,” Dean eventually says, but it comes out firm. And then, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, Cas. You know it isn’t that simple.” The look on his face is pained, and Castiel would do anything to erase it, but he’s not sorry he brought this up.

“Dean. This is your decision. Whatever you want, I will support you.” Dean’s chin has dropped slightly, so Castiel dips his head to force Dean to look him in the eyes. “I’ve long since accepted what going public would mean for me. I have little to lose in comparison to you, though I’m very happy to stay out of the limelight for as long as possible. You know all of this though. What I am not sure that you understand, is that I would give it all up in a heartbeat, if you’re unhappy hiding. While I truly believe your sexuality and our relationship is no one’s business but our own, I feel equally strongly that no one should _have_ to hide who they are, least of all the man that I love. I don’t want you to think that I am pushing you, far from it. I am just… making it clear that when you are ready, when you have had enough, I will be proud to stand by your side. Alright?”

Dean’s eyes are as full as they were earlier during the final stanzas of “ _Out of Perdition,”_ and he fails miserably at blinking them clear. “Yea, Cas,” he replies hoarsely. “I hear you.”

“Good,” Castiel replies, matter-of-factly. “Now, as much as I would enjoy fucking you into the mattress for the second night in a row, I did notice that your gait is still a bit… off.” He bites back another smirk as Dean flushes pink. “So I had another idea.” He pulls away from Dean and strides over to the mini fridge under the dresser, opening it and pulling out a couple of whiskey bottles. “But first,” he exclaims, turning and wiggling them at Dean. “You owe me a body shot.”

***  

With the door locked and the blinds drawn, their naked body parts brushing together softly, the party, the band, the entire rock ’n’ roll scene seems _miles_ away. Even the sounds of laughter and bottles clinking are petering out as the band and their new friends start to break off for more secluded locations or their own beds. Here in their quiet refuge, pressed into the soft, luxurious hotel bedding, the pair of them are just _Dean and Cas,_ two madly in love regular people doing what lovers do in the dark.

Castiel’s spread wide on top of the covers with Dean on his knees between his thighs. He flexes his abdominal muscles to surge up and kiss him, tasting the lingering alcohol on his breath. Dean kisses back hungrily, chasing after Cas’ mouth when he lets himself fall back onto the bed with a teasing smile. But Dean follows after him, pressing their bodies together tightly to steal another kiss or three before being made to pull back by the painful dig into their ribs of the tiny whiskey bottle that’s accidentally trapped between them. Dean scoops it up and uncaps it, pouring a measure into the forced hollow of Castiel’s stomach and chasing straight after it with his tongue. His hands caress up Castiel’s sides as he mouths over his abdomen, making sure to lap up every last drop before moving on, but he doesn’t stop there. He slides his left arm under Cas’ shoulders, pulling his shoulders up off of the bed. He kisses Castiel’s lips once, and then proceeds to pour a bit of the whiskey into the dip of his collarbone. He laps that up too, starting with a wayward drop that results in a long, drawn out lick dragging all the way up from his sternum and ending with Dean slurping the rest of the small pool down messily. He remains at Cas’ collarbone long after the liquid is gone, sucking enthusiastically until a pretty purple-red bloom appears. 

Castiel can’t help but tighten his legs around Dean’s hips, and any other night he’d probably be down to be fucked just like this, but he really does have something else in mind. He lets Dean mouth at his chest a little longer, mainly because his soft tongue and hot mouth feel extraordinary on his skin, and he’s been craving this all night. He tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair and isn’t shy with his sounds; he knows Dean loves to hear when he’s doing something Castiel enjoys. Not that there’s anything sexual Dean does that Castiel _doesn’t_ enjoy, but the things he does with his mouth are _next level_. And Castiel plans to take full advantage of that, since Dean owes him one and all. When he’s ready to change things up, he tugs the short strands of Dean’s hair just hard enough to cause those spikes of pleasure-pain he knows he loves. Dean pushes up just enough to look Castiel in the eyes, and his own are hazy and glazed with lust. His freckled face is flushed and his lips are red and swollen, glistening after Dean’s tongue darts out to wet them. He’s so perfectly _stunning,_ and Castiel clasps both hands around his face to pull him in to be kissed.

Dean goes easily, moaning into Castiel’s mouth and opening for him without a second thought. He lets Castiel roll them over, happily spreading his own legs so that their positions can switch and Castiel can settle between them. Castiel cups the base of his skull and nuzzles under his jaw, kisses the spot under his left ear. “I love you,” he murmurs roughly. “You’re perfection. Let me show you.” He kisses down Dean’s neck and sucks a mirror bruise to his own into the opposite collarbone. He can feel Dean’s cock hardening further against his lower abdomen so he rolls his hips forward to give him some friction. It’s unexpected and Dean grunts in delight, his fingers tightening around Castiel’s biceps.

“What, uh, uhm…” Dean trails off and has to clear his throat and wet his lips, taking a deep breath in between panting ones before he’s ready to continue. “What was it you wanted to do?” Castiel releases the nipple he’s been worrying and sits up then, a devious smirk on his face.

“Something that we do not do _nearly_ enough, Dean.” He shuffles forward and rearranges his limbs so that he’s straddling Dean’s chest. His green eyes go wide and his pretty mouth falls open unconsciously. _Lovely,_ Castiel thinks. This isn’t the plan either, but Castiel can’t say he isn’t tempted. He controls himself though, and surprises Dean by turning all the way around and bending over so that his cock is in perfect reach of Dean’s mouth. In turn, he sucks Dean down without delay, causing the man to buck his hips and thrust upward with a loud moan. Castiel places a firm hand on his upper thigh and holds him down, but Dean controls himself very quickly after that.

“Fuck Cas, you are goddamn perfect,” he say before lifting his head to lick at Castiel’s balls and and opening his throat wide to swallow Castiel’s length as far down as it will go. His legs start to shake as Dean’s mouth works its magic oh his cock, his fingers grazing his hole and rolling his balls gently. Castiel does his best to return the favor, humming around Dean’s cock and pressing two fingers in the space above his hole to stimulate his prostate from the outside. Dean’s legs jerk reflexively when he does, and it’s not long before he has him shaking and tensing up and spilling down his throat. He works him through it, his own cock falling out of Dean’s lax mouth as he shouts his way through his orgasm. Once he’s softening against Castiel’s tongue and on the verge of oversensitive, Castiel sits up and turns around, back to that tempting position from earlier and with intentions of following through.

Dean looks up at him with half-lidded, yet adoring eyes, his hand skating up Castiel’s thigh to grip his hip and encourage him forward. “Do it,” he urges, his voice gravel-rough and dirty. “I want you to.” He opens his mouth and Castiel slides inside, bracing himself over Dean using the wall behind the bed. He keeps his thrusts shallow and careful at first, but Dean only squeezes his ass and opens his mouth wider. He’s so pliant and relaxed from his own release, he almost seems sleepy as he takes whatever Castiel gives him. Rolling his hips and pushing deeper, Dean’s breathes carefully around him, swallowing and humming and generally acting like it’s no big deal that his not-small boyfriend is almost balls deep in his mouth. Just watching Dean take his cock with such trust and with so much affection in his eyes has Castiel close to the brink pretty quickly, so when Dean starts to moan around his cock like he’s the one being pleasured, Castiel loses it pretty instantaneously, spilling hot and hard down Dean’s throat. He swallows with practiced ease and pulls off with a wet pop and a cocky but exhausted smile.

Castiel slides down to blanket Dean’s body with his own, licking into his mouth and kissing his lips until Dean shoves him back lightly. “Alright already,” he complains, but he’s still smiling. “Where’s my water?” Castiel steals another kiss but gets up to bring him some right away. Dean gulps it down like he’s been wandering the desert all night and asks for another. After another glass and a half, he collapses back onto his pillow with a content sigh. “That’s the stuff,” he murmurs. “You better hope you didn’t fuck up my vocal cords, Castiel Novak. You’re making me tea in the morning.” His eyes are closing and his words turn to slurs by the end of his last sentence, but Castiel hums in acknowledgement anyway, sliding back into bed beside Dean and pulling him close.

“Of course, Dean. Anything you like.”

“Bacon,” Dean mumbles from where he’s tucked himself into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “I like bacon.”

“We’ll see,” Castiel replies, patting his arm.

“Like you too,” Dean adds, without moving. “You… you’re all I see. Million fans… only want you.”

Castiel can’t help the pleased smile that steals across his face at Dean’s sex-high, exhaustion-provoked words. “That works out nicely,” he replies. “I only want you too.”

He drifts off with thoughts of the next morning, and how it’s another show day. He’ll have Dean’s tea ready when he wakes, and then they’ll do it all again. Castiel doesn’t mind.

***

Madison wakes up hungover the next morning in her own bed to her phone pinging obnoxiously with a new text message.

_Sam was pretty hot. I stayed the night after u left… omg bass is not the only thing that boy has a natural talent for_

**_Sorry i was a wet blanket. Was disappointed by Dean._**

_Sucked he wasn’t interested or whatever. Guess rockstars get tired too. Here, maybe this will make u feel better. U see what I see? [PICTURE MESSAGE]_

Madison opens the message to find a camera phone quality picture of her own body laying on the hotel room bar with her shirt rucked up and the dark haired bartender pouring alcohol onto her stomach. It’s a cool picture, but Madison can’t help but notice that Dean isn’t really looking at _her_ at all. In fact, he’s looking at the fucking _bartender._ The _male_ bartender, and the bartender is definitely fucking looking back. Madison knows _that_ look for sure, it’s the same one every girl in that stadium had plastered on their face when they looked at Dean.

“No fucking way,” she whispers to herself, and replies the same to her friend.

_Yea girl… don’t blame yourself. That boy’s door does not swing in your direction._

**_We could make a million dollars off of this pic!!!!!!!!!!_**

_Bitch, we signed NDAs, don’t you remember? You can’t say shit unless you want to be sued into the ground by the best lawyers in Hollywood. Sorry babe._

**_FML._**

**_Who’s the guy tho? You better believe I’m gonna find out._**

***

_Present Day_

Two weeks after Castiel and Dean’s wedding/official coming out, a fan letter arrives at Dean’s agent’s office. After opening it and evaluating the contents (like they do with all of Dean’s fan mail) one of Dean’s agent’s assistants sorts it into a box of similar letters and hand delivers them to Dean himself.

He thanks the assistant and brings the box inside, plopping down on the couch to see what sort of fan mail was so urgent it needed to be hand delivered. Castiel joins him on the couch and they each grab a handful to look through. It soon becomes clear what the letters have in common, and by the time he’s read three Dean’s got his head thrown back and he's laughing almost hysterically.

“Guess we weren’t quite as smooth as we thought.” Dean chuckles as he removes his reading glasses and wipes tears from his eyes. Castiel’s brow is still furrowed in concentration as he compares the contents of one letter to another. 

“How have we never seen any of these? I can understand a few of your fans having enough loyalty or discretion not to share them, but _all_ of them? Dean, this doesn’t make any sense. Humans, by nature, are opportunists, and none of these people knew you personally to care enough to keep your secret.”

“Two-fold answer there, Cas. One, I think that you’re underestimating fandom. You don’t gotta know someone personally to appreciate them and want to protect them from being treated badly. And two,” Dean pauses for added drama, wiggling his eyebrows at Castiel when he raises his own in impatience, “Nondisclosure agreements.”

“That was very anticlimactic,” Castiel replies with a frown.

Dean shrugs. “It’s the truth. No one got into our suites without signing one. You probably never noticed ‘cause we were usually making out in my dressing room around that time.”

“This is a valid point,” Castiel agrees. “We did do that a lot.”

“Anyway,” Dean continues, “I think it’s adorable. We should pick one to run with the article.”

Castiel is quiet for a moment and appears thoughtful. “I suppose,” he agrees. “What harm can it do now? Would it be alright if I kept the rest?”

“‘Course, Cas,” Dean replies. “You’re not going to burn them, right?”

Castiel ignores Dean’s petulance and holds a few of the included photos up to compare. “I thought I’d make a scrapbook,” he says. “I never said so, but it’s always bothered me how few pictures we have of us together that aren’t selfies. These are good memories for me.”

That makes Dean smile and edge closer. He removes a photograph so that he can take Castiel’s hand, and kisses him warmly. “Me too,” he says, after pulling back. “The best memories.”

***

The photo they end up choosing for the PR spread was taken at a Hilton in Philadelphia, according to a visible logo. It depicts a post-concert Dean and Castiel, rumpled and sweaty, separated by a hotel room bar and a scantily clad blonde girl on her back, whose stomach Castiel is pouring cheap vodka onto for a body shot. Just like every single other picture in the box, an assortment that spans the last eight or nine years, Dean and Castiel only have eyes for each other. They look just as in love in those messy candid photos as they do in their official wedding portraits. Dean especially, it appears, has always found it impossible to control his face when Castiel is around.

Really, it’s a wonder that no one ever guessed.

 


End file.
